Category: Dreams

The Navy Dream

I dreamed that I was the U.S. Navy but was preparing to get out. (Amusing to me after awakening, as I’d been in the U.S.A.F. for a career.) While I was in the Navy, I started making some improvements on some forms and processes they were using, and briefing commanders. My briefings became popular; the commanders sought me out for information, which provided a great positive vibe.

All that prompted me to think, maybe I should stay in the Navy. But my wife said, “No, don’t you want to get out and become a doctor?”

I answered, “Yes, I do, but I really want to be a writer.”

My wife replied, “You always said that you wanted to be a doctor.”

“Yes, I do,” I answered, “because I like helping people and I think I’d do it well. But I want to write. Why can’t I do both?”

She said, “There’s no reason why you can’t do both.”

We agreed I’d get out of the Navy and do both.

Dream end.

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The Mountain Claims Dream

As a young man in this dream, I was on team. We were competing against other teams to claim part of a mountain. The mountain was good sized, thick with forest and grassy, rising at a steep angle, with cliffs and sharp drop-offs on either side. Don’t know why claiming this mountain was being pursued. That was never mentioned.

All the teams managed to claim some of the mountain. Some had better parcels than others. My team was dissatisfied with their parcel and were inveigling the other teams to get more parcels or better parcels. I tried telling my team that more mountain was available. None paid attention to me so I trudged up the mountain on my own.

The weather had been cold but clear. Now, as I trudged, the environment turned dark and icy. I kept going up past where the others had claimed parcels and began claiming more for my team.

Some of my team caught up with me and wanted to know what I was doing. I explained it all, which delighted them. They were surprised because they didn’t know the mountain went on past the claimed parcels. The weather cleared as they looked at the new parcels I’d claimed. Two of the other teams tried coming up to get some but realized they were too late and that I’d already claimed the best. I then found a new cement four-lane highway came up to the parcels I’d claimed. When the rest saw what I’d found, they began celebrating.

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Sunday’s Theme Music

It’s a gorgeous Sunday out there, pure blue sky and sunshine, the sort of day, in my working past, when we would leap up and say, “It’s a gorgeous day. Where should we go? What shall we do?” But today, we’re on our computers, in our books, in our chairs, in our office, reading, eating, communicating, writing.

The sun burst over the mountains at 7:19 AM and we’ll lose the sunshine at 5:32 late this afternoon. It only dropped to 38 degrees F last night and quickly reach fifty today, promising to, um, 70 degrees F. What? Can the weather service be right? Is this really mid-winter in Ashland, Oregon? Well, the record high, in 1992, was 72.

Today’s song trickled in as I thought about the landslide dream this morning. “Landslide” by Fleetwood Mac was written by Stevie Nicks and released in 1975. Although covered well by The Smashing Pumpkins and the Dixie Chicks, I have connections to that original song. In ’75, I was nineteen, married, serving in the military without my wife in the Philippines. So when you’re sitting in your room after work at night, getting your uniform ready for work the next day, sipping some alcohol, listening to music, connections are created.

Stay positive, test negative, wear a mask, and get the vax and booster when you can. Time for a coffee break. Cheers

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The Landslide Dream

It began with me as a teenager visiting in a small town. I was going from house to house, slipping between hedges, visiting friends. All the friends happened to be elderly women. One was my great-grandmother. The town was lifted out of the fifties, with small houses, typically white, single levels, with shutters, and tidy yards lined with flowers. I always entered the houses through the back, kitchen door, because that’s where I knew the people would be. And I was always right. They were in their tiny kitchens — smaller than the bathrooms in my house — busy cooking, moving around a small table with four chairs. All greeted with smiles and laughter and offered eagerly accepted food, mostly cookies and donuts.

After, though, I left, and found myself wandering in old homes where no one lived any longer. The further that I went, the less there were of the houses. First absent were the flowers and lawns, and then the walks and the windows. Inside, I found empty, dusty rooms.

I was a little older now, perhaps in my twenties. Soon the houses lost their roofs and doors, their siding. I was out where the hills rose, then found myself in a quarry. A house or building, maybe part of a mining operation, had been erected to one side. Little remained of it except an oddly stout brown wall.

I went through the quarry, clambering over boulders and rocks, scaling short cliffs. I became aware that two children had entered the quarry. They were about eight, blond and fair. One was taller than the other by two or three inches.

I watched them for a moment. They had as much right to be there as me, so I continued my exploring. As I climbed a sheer wall, picking handholds on the sandstone and flint outcrops, dirt and rocks fell over me. I threw myself back and away just in time to avoid a huge granite boulder. I didn’t know where it’d come from; its size astonished and scared me. As I recovered from jumping back and away, I saw a large slab of the wall break free and fall.

Scrambling backward took me to safety. As dust rose, I thought of the children. I saw them about forty feet away. They’d climbed as I had and had reached a ledge. I shouted at them that it wasn’t safe, that we need to leave. Rocks tumbled around them. From my vantage, I saw larger, heavier rocks breaking free above them and called out a warning.

The children slipped into a small crevice about twenty feet above the quarry floor. Rocks fell without striking them. Yellow dust thickened as gravel slid down the cliff. The children were coughing. With more rocks falling around me, I made my way over rocks and stones across the quarry to help the children.

Their rock wall moved in, like it was taking a breath, carrying them in with them. The children disappeared from sight. Dodging rocks, waving away dust, I hurried to find and help the children. A rock taller than them pushed them out of the crevice. As they moved aside, it teetered for a moment before rolling down the cliff, jarring more rocks loose with its thunderous landing.

I was almost to the children. Realizing their danger, they were taking action to get down. I reached them in time to help them to the quarry floor. The walls on three sides were spasming and then stilling. I feared something more catastrophic was about to happen and raced with the children to get out. When we reached the point where we’d entered, we discovered our way blocked by collapsed rocks.

The children were panicking. So was I. Frantic to do something, I saw the brown wall. Crossing to it, I jumped up and caught the top of it. Very carefully, I tilted it backwards into the quarry. I found a huge off-white strap, inches thick and about four inches wide, which reminded me of a fire hose, that I used to help me leverage the wall back toward us.

When the wall was low enough, I directed the children over it. They climbed onto it and slid down the other side. Once they were safe, I precariously balanced the wall. More quarry fell in behind me. As it did, I used the white strap to cautiously climb up and over the wall to safety. When I was done, I pulled the brown wall back up into place and regarded it before moving on.

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Three Dream Vignettes

I experienced three highly detailed, vivid dreams last night, all in a row, flowing from one to the other. First up.

I’m in a car driving in a city in the late afternoon to early evening. I’ve come up to a large and busy intersection. The light is red. I have friends in other cars. We’re all going somewhere. My wife is with me in the car.

I think the light is green and go forward. In a flash, like it’s a film being shown, I see cutaways to friends in other cars saying, “Why is Michael going? The light is red. He shouldn’t be going.” They blow their horns.

I’m driving through the intersection. My wife shouts, “What are you doing? The light is red.”

I’m looking up through the windshield. The light is red, but I thought it was a green light. I’m certain that I saw one.

The traffic turning left against us is light. The drivers of those cars are aware that I’m not doing something right. They give me space and distance. No one is hurt except me and my pride. What is wrong with me?

I pull over to the curb. I’m alone in the car. I’m trying to understand why I thought there was a green light. I look up in time to see a young driver execute in the other direction. He’s driving a mid-sixties Pontiac GTO. Classic muscle car. It’s in impressive condition, with a well-maintained, shiny body. As I watch, this young white guy, maybe seventeen years old, does a U turn and hits the side of my car.

I can’t believe this. He’s pulled over. I get out of my car and look at the damage. My car is silver. The damage is light, toward the rear quarter panel. I approach him, and tell him, “You know the drill. License, registration, insurance.” He’s crying because he just got his license. He knows he’ll face trouble. I feel sympathy for him.

My wife comes up. I ask for the camera. She starts making demands about how this will be handled, wanting me to make promises. We get into an argument. She won’t give me the camera. Irritated, I find my computer to take pictures. I know I can, but, the computer is missing its two AA batteries needed for the camera aspect. But, I have batteries in another part of the computer, use those and take the photos needed.

Number two.

I’m talking to a friend and mentioned something about the Chevy El Camino. I ask him if he knows what they are and how they look. He’s not familiar with it, so I tell him I’ll draw a picture of one. For whatever reason, I’m referring to the fourth-generation design from the early to mid 1970s. I’m explaining the design details as I draw it, talking about the front grill, and how it went from a single headlight to a double-stacked headlight on either side. I realize that I’m drawing on top of another drawing someone has done. I’m astonished. How did I not see that?

I don’t want to draw on another’s drawing. It’s a landscape, sort of a primitive style executed in charcoal. I admire it, erase my drawing, and find another piece of paper. I think it’s blank but as I begin drawing again, I see that there is a drawing on it.

I’m amazed. Why can’t I see those drawings before I begin drawing?

Number three.

We’ve arrived at a huge factory. Besides the factory, it has a large administrative/office section. I’m with a party of friends, all male. I think there are twenty of us. None of them are people known from RL but I know all of them in the dream.

A young brunette woman with a ponytail is showing us around the building. When we walk into one part, we men all start laughing. A tall space, it’s divided into sections and cubicles and is stacked from floor to ceiling with mechanical equipment and electronic gear. I exclaim, “This is exactly the kind of place that I used to work in.” The other men are saying the same thing. We’re all laughing and agreeing, it’s just like where we used to work. We just walk around, talking about the environment. I follow the path, remembering where my cubicle would have been located. In RL, I never worked in a place like this, but in the dream, I turn a corner, and there is my old workstation. Pointing it out to the rest, I laugh. When they see my station, they go off and start finding their own old workstations. How is this possible, we wonder, because we all worked in different places?

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Another Airport Dream

I experienced three distinct airport dreams last night. Two were of the, ‘hey, I’m traveling in an airport’ style, once with my wife, and once without her. They were essentially just in the airport, milling around, waiting for my flights, without any events happening. The third was weird.

My wife and I were in our thirties and looked just as we would in photographs of that time. We were outside on asphalt, between low building with white siding. The buildings reminded me of military buildings erected in the late 1950s/early 1960s. Cyclone fencing encircled the site. Beyond were tall pines and firs in a sandy but flat land sketchy with broken asphalt and foundations where other buildings had been torn down.

We talked as we waited. I asked, “I wonder how much of this land and these buildings are going with us?” Because it was my understanding that they would fly us out by lifting the land we were on. I was struggling to visualize that process.

As time passed, we drifted into another area. Tall, fat, white, cylindrical pillars held ceiling up hundreds of feet above our heads. The paved area was open on all sides. People in knots, clumps, groups, were waiting all around although the center was clear. I walked around a while, looking, wondering when we were leaving, then found that I’d lost track of my wife. As I looked for her, I heard an announcement that our flight was ready and that we need to return to our places.

A stocky pale man with short hair, a red baseball cap, and a goatee asked, “Are you looking for your wife?” As I nodded and replied, “Yes,” he said, “She went to the Starbucks,” and pointed. I turned and saw my wife up on a platform, waving at me. Thanking the man, I walked toward her and waved her toward me, telling her, “Come on. It’s time.”

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The White House Extravaganza Dream

The White House Extravaganza Dream was long, detailed, and complicated as a Game of Thrones season. It’d take too long time and words to recount it completely, so I’m offering a few bullets.

  • I was in my mid-twenties. My wife and I were staying a luxurious mini-suite. We were discussing where to go eat when we remembered, “Oh, wait, we have the White House today.”
  • She and I were one of several hundreds on the tour. My family and brothers-in-law were on it, too. As an interesting side, they were their current ages while I was young.
  • The White House wasn’t the familiar edifice. I never saw the outside, but the inside was an extensive complex. Furniture and carpets were in cranberry hues.
  • Guides were always around, answering our questions, leading us into new halls and places, explaining things, and watching after us. The guides were all dressed in cranberry-colored slacks and vests, with long-sleeved light-blue shirts. The senior guide was an elegant female person of color.
  • They fed us a lot during the tour. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, snacks. I ended up declining food. After eating one meal, they offered us smoothies. I turned them down because I was too full. I was amazed that others took them.
  • I didn’t meet the POTUS but the Secret Service stopped a small group of us because the POTUS was in the room. A slender, bald person of color, the POTUS he wore a dark cranberry suit, speaking about jazz while getting his shoes shined. When he finished, he waved to us and walked away down another hall. We were all very excited and pleased to see him.
  • We’d also gone on the White House water park rides. They showed us slides and videos of us on the different rides, laughing and having fun.
  • At one point on the tour, as we were being escorted from one hall to another, a young white man called me out and stopped me. Introducing himself as a WH aide, he provided me with a business card. Before giving it to me, he turned it over and wrote in pen. He said, “That’s a code to reach me any time that you need help or want anything. Just call the number and give them the code, and they’ll put you through.” I was amused. I couldn’t imagine what help I would need from the WH. No one else received such a card to my knowledge.
  • Toward the end, I needed to use the restroom and stopped at the underground WH gas station. (Yeah, ns.) I was first to arrive of five men. The room was occupied. We were not in line but standing apart. Although I was first, I let the others go ahead of me. While there, a man had a large four-wheel drive Ford pickup. Jacked up, with huge tires on chrome wheels, it was painted glossy red. He had a panel on the bed raised. I looked inside and saw an orderly line of transfer cases and differentials. While I was baffled why he had so many, the layout impressed me. “But where is the engine?” I asked, even though I knew it was a pick-up truck, the engine should be in the front. But I spotted it in the back, a huge black and chrome unit.
  • At one point in the WH dream tour, I noticed the carpet had tiles made to look like shoes. I then discovered that these included outlines of my family members’ shoes. They were enormous, much larger than my shoes. I laughed at that.

The dream was livelier than these words portrayed. I felt energetic and lifted when it ended. Its sharpness and details amazed me.

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The Tricorder Dream

I began as a fighter pilot but upon returning from a mission, I changed clothes and started writing computer programs as part of a small startup. In my early thirties (from appearance), I was initially writing programs as a database manager while serving as a mid-level manager overseeing several functions, including data collection and entry. The company was involved with a new medical process and was going through clinical trials and marketing trials. Several RL people from my RL employment with medical device companies appeared in the dream. I knew the details of the trial in the dream, but it was all glossed over and they’re lost now. What the company was doing wasn’t working but I realized that another benefit was possible. That’s what I began writing a program. It was to work with a scanner to be a sort of medical tricorder (as used in Star Trek). I developed a form for the scan to fill out. Each iteration helped me refine and expand what the tricorder could do. I became immensely excited because they could be manufactured and sold cheaply, enabling people to scan themselves non-invasively at home without a need for blood and urine panels, x-rays, or MRIs. It would be a proactive tool to get ahead of your body’s trends before they became a problem. You could easily baseline your norms and then keep testing yourself to see what changes had taken place. The dream ended with me scanning myself as a test subject.

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An Office Dream

I had a busy, cluttered office/room. Appearing like I was in my twenties, I seemed quite content. In this dream, I was not married. I’m not sure what my work duties and responsibilities were except they involved my computer and going to meetings. I lived on campus but sometimes had to drive to another part for work. None of my co-workers were recognized as RL people.

On this very busy day, I was wearing black jeans and a black shirt. Packing up my laptop, I drove across the campus for a meeting. When I came out, I discovered a friendly co-worker had put a black collar and leash on a young woman. The leash was tied to something. Pretty, with white skin, dark hair, in her early twenties she was dressed in a revealing two-piece outfit with black boots.

I was appalled and spoke with her. How did this happen? Who did this? I told her, I can help get you out. The collar had a key; I had a key that would work for it back in my room. I explained to her, the collar wasn’t a collar but was designed and used for something else. If she went with me, I could unlock her. Conversely, I could go, get the key, come back and unlock her.

We decided to go to my room. We walked and were there in a dream flash. She told me when she got there that she wasn’t going into my room, but she was going to walk around and show everyone what my co-worker did to her. Fair enough. I would get the key and find her.

I entered my room. My desk and stuff were gone. A different desk was in its place, along with a plush, black leather chair. A tall man and woman, both Caucasians, were there, along with a third man. The woman wore white with gold jewelry. The man wore black and had tattoos on his face and short black hair.

I exploded. “Where’s my desk? Where’s my stuff? Who did this?”

At first, the others ignored me. The third man said they didn’t know who had decided anything and didn’t know what had happened to my stuff. The tall man chided me for saying that it was ‘my room and stuff’ because, really, it belonged to the company. I took exception, because the furniture and space belonged to the company, but my personal effects and clothing were gone.

Someone suggested where my stuff was. I went there and found it. I didn’t like the change. Someone said it was a promotion, but I didn’t accept that. It seemed a lot like my original room, but I didn’t like how it’d been changed without telling me first.

Meanwhile, I found the key, went out, and tracked down the young woman. It was a very busy circular place, with many projects going on, and it took me a few minutes to find her. She was walking about, loudly telling all, look what so-and-so did because he thought it was funny. I unlocked her, then mentioned that I’d forgotten my car on the other side of the campus and needed to go get it, if she wanted to walk over there with me. She agreed. An older woman called me over. She asked me if I’d made a contract with the woman with the collar. When I answered no, she told me that I need to make such a contract to explore her emotions and ensure she’s okay after this incident. I agreed to do that.

A bunch of us set out walking, including the previously collared woman. I fell in with the tall man in black and the tall woman in white. Talking with them, I recognized them as minor celebrities. We were going to see a parade; they’d been part of the parade the previous year. They told me they were part of it this year, too, and invited me to join.

Veering off to find my car, I ended up in an auditorium on company business where I met another tall man. Seated in front of me in a plush auditorium, I realized that he’d been with the tall man and woman the previous year. He congratulated me on my powers of observation and keen memory, and then gave me his card. I hurried away because I still hadn’t picked up my car.

Going under cement culverts along street roads, I rejoined the people walking toward the parade route, including the previously collared woman. I broached the subject of the contract with her. She immediately told me she wanted nothing to do with that because she thought them a waste of time. I was relieved because I agreed.

At this point, I was in my underwear, bikini briefs. I didn’t mind because I was slender and muscular. I noticed a number of young, trim, muscular women also dressed only in underwear. I decided that I was going to skip the parade because I still needed to get my car.

The dream ended.

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A House Dream

I was split about what I was calling this dream because of its varying facets. WTH.

I was a teenager. I’d biked back to visit an area where I previously lived, to see the friends still living there.

But my friend wasn’t home. Platinum blonde and white, with hair and clothing styles lifted from the 1960s, aunts and older female family friends were there and told me, “Make yourself at home.” I was in the kitchen with them and felt uncomfortable because it wasn’t my place. They scoffed away those protests while they stayed busy chatting and doing things.

The large, bright kitchen was fresh, airy, and uber-modern. Hidden doors and cupboards were everywhere. The refrigerator opened and unfolded like a transformer toy and held an amazing amount of food. My astonishment rabbited higher with every revelation.

One aunt was looking for cheese. Announcing, “I can’t find it, I have to go to the store for it,” I replied, “Wait, no, I know where it’s at.” I showed her some unfolding refrigerator section that she didn’t know about where the cheese was tucked away.

After that, I walked around the home’s bottom level. My friend’s mother returned home at that point. Short and fair, blue-eyed, with pink lipstick and white gold hair cut like Marlo Thomas in “That Girl”, she told me that I was welcome to stay as long as I like. I demurred but walked around because the house fascinated me. The living room had two large, comfortably furnished conversation pits, but the back of the living room had two natural reflecting pools surrounded by cliff walls. I saw my friend’s Mom take her bikini top off and sit back, relaxing and meditating, but looked away, not wanting to impose on her.

Going on through the house, I found a large green lawn adjacent to the living room. No walls separated them. Another front door led into that area from the outside. Two front doors! I was quite impressed and thought, every house should have two front doors. It made sense.

I had my bike now, and pushed it toward the house’s back, where I encountered the ocean. Yes, there was a large beach, reminiscent of central California, inside their house, or the house wasn’t closed in on that end. I couldn’t decide which it was as I enjoyed the crashing waves and different bird varieties.

My friend still hadn’t returned. I decided to head home. I pushed my bike back up into the living room. Seeing his mother, still topless by the reflecting pool, I called out to her, “I’m going home now. Thanks for everything.”

She came to me, putting a tee shirt on as she did, and asked questions about my planned route home. Announcing she was going that way, she said that she’d ride with me, and pulled her bike out. She was doing some shopping that way.

We rode our bikes along a rutted narrow dirt road filled with potholes and talked. She asked me why I liked her. I told her because she was intelligent, clever, charming, and beautiful. I raved a bit about her house, which I thought was amazing. She was distant in reply; I realized she wasn’t paying attention but was focused on riding her bike.

We arrived at a little market where she wanted to stop to buy bubble gum. Small wicker buckets at angles on wooden platforms abounded in a cramped, small stall. She told me to pick out some gum for myself and then said, “Oh, I need to get tongue for the dogs.”

“Tongue?”

She was holding up several packages. “Oh, yes, they love it.”

I was bewildered. “But isn’t that bubble gum?” Then I thought, who would make tongue-flavored bubble gum? I must have misunderstood.

That’s where it ended.

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